Chapter 149
The Blood Remembers
The fire crackled softly, offering little warmth against the sudden cold that seeped into the walls of the cabin. Joel had been silent for the past ten minutes, his eyes occasionally flicking toward Emerald. She sat curled on the couch beside him, her fingers tightly gripping the edge of his shirt. She hadn’t let go since he returned.
“You’re quiet,” he finally said.
"So are you," she whispered, not glancing at him. Her voice broke a little, but she hid it with a little yawn and burrowed deeper into his side.
Joel's arm tightened around her instinctively, but his gaze went to the window. The woods outside seemed too still. Something in the air had shifted, almost unnoticeable but real…. like the held breath of someone standing in the shadows.
He leaned his head, listening.
Nothing.
He looked down at her. "You okay?"
She paused. "Just tired."
"You're tired a lot lately,"
"I said I'm fine." Her voice was sharper than she intended. She immediately apologized. "Sorry," she whispered and buried her face in his chest like a child afraid of being spanked.
Joel didn’t respond right away. He wasn’t angry. But the chill in the room, the stillness… it didn’t feel right. And she was clinging to him more than usual. As if she was scared he’d vanish if she let go.
He brushed her hair gently behind her ear. “I’ll make us tea.”
“No,” she whispered, clutching him tighter. “Just stay.”
So he stayed.
And the shadows watched.
Later in the afternoon, she moved through the cabin as if underwater. Her footsteps did not sound on the floorboards. Joel had gone up to the second story to retrieve something. The butler had gone to go back to the village for supplies. She was by herself.
Almost.
Something stirred in the corner of her vision.
She turned around.
Nothing.
Her hands trembled a little as she went on folding. A sock in one, a sweater in the other. She felt the wind outside, barely perceptible against the glass.
Then it shifted.
A melody rode the wind. Soft. Understated. Familiar.
Emerald ceased folding.
It was the lullaby of Lena.
"No," she whispered. "That's not real. That's not real.".
But it was. It was the tune her mother hummed to put her into bed. The same one Lena sang every night after their parents had died. The same one she'd thought she'd forgotten.
Now it whispered down the hallway.
She dropped the sweater.
"Lena?" she called, her voice reed-thin, breakable.
There was no answer.
But the lullaby continued.
Emerald stepped into the hall barefoot. The melody attracted her like a thread tugging along her very being. She went to the far end of the hallway to the mirror.
It was an old-fashioned thing. Ancient. Too tall for the room. It had stood there since she had been.
In the mirror, there stood a little girl. Her…. ten years old. Filthy. faced, with eyes too big for her face and a tear running down from one of them.
"Stop this," Emerald panted.
The girl tilted her head.
The vision blinked…. and now it was Lena. Older. Clad in the same ceremonial white robe she'd been wearing when she returned the night she'd died.
"Lena?" she panted, holding out a hand.
Lena remained silent.
Instead, her reflection lifted a finger and pointed.
To the other mirror down the hallway.
Emerald turned around, her heart racing.
That mirror showed another second…. Lena little this time when she was smiling, spinning round. Then she scrunched up her face in horror. Blood soaked through her dress. A silent shriek ripped through her mouth.
Emerald's legs buckled. She collapsed against the wall, panting for breath.
She closed her eyes. Counted. One, two, three.
When she opened them again for the second time, both mirrors showed her own face. Pale. Wide. eyed. Trembling.
She stumbled into the kitchen and slumped against the counter.
This wasn't happening.
She grabbed the teacup Joel had left her with earlier. When her fingers wrapped around the ceramic, she saw something by the window.
A flower.
Tiny, delicate, growing in a chipped mug as if planted there on purpose.
But nobody had planted it.
And it hadn't been there this morning.
It was blood. red. Darker than roses. Crimson petals as soft as silk.
She held out her hand to touch it.
The petals quivered beneath her fingertips, as if they were breathing, almost.
She remembered the prophecy. Her grandmother's whispered admonitions. "When the blood blooms in places it shouldn't… the past is no longer buried."
The petals pulsed weakly.
"What are you trying to tell me, Lena?" Emerald breathed.
A gust of air rushed through the closed window.
The candle on the table swayed wildly.
Then the flame stabilized.
And a voice…. barely loud enough to hear…. caressed her ear.
"The blood remembers."
She spun around.
Nobody.
Upstairs, Joel paused halfway. step. Something touched his spine…. like a chill wind.
He turned to look at the stairs.
Something was wrong.
In the kitchen once more, Emerald glared at the flower.
Her hands trembled.
She should call Joel.
She should talk.".
But something in her recognized that this was hers alone to bear.
And the shadows watched.
And the mirrors remembered.
And the blood bloomed.